


Privy

by WandererRiha



Series: Brokeback [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AU, Disability, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Invasive Medical Procedures, Medical Procedures, Mentions of surgery, No Gore, Physical Disability, Surgery recovery, Therapy, Vomiting, Whump, cyborg prompto, disabled noct, hurt comfort, robot prompto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 03:04:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandererRiha/pseuds/WandererRiha
Summary: Privy - Latin, Middle EnglishAdjective: privy1. Sharing in the knowledge of (something secret or private).2. Aware of, acquainted with, in on, informed of, advised of, apprised of, etcSynonyms: hidden, secret, privateNoun: privy1. A toilet, usually located in a small shed outside a house or building; an outhouse2. A person having a part or interest in any action, matter, or thing.See related: Privy Council - Originally the courtiers who would assist the king while using the toilet. These were the people closest to the king who cared for his intimate needs.A sort of prequel to "Brokeback".What if Sylva couldn't heal Noctis?





	Privy

Gladiolus Amicitia had known from a young age that he would be a member of the Crownsguard. Before he understood the sacred duty of his family to protect the royal family, it was something he had always wanted to do. His father was a member; the king's personal bodyguard. It was therefore the coolest job in the world and Gladio wanted to be just like his father when he grew up.

Then the Empire took over and everything changed. Gladio still trained, still drilled, but there was no Crownsguard anymore, not officially. The Empire had done its best to reroute, remove, or run off all the original members along with the King’s Glaives. Gladio’s father found a way to keep them within shouting distance. As for himself, his father pulled him aside and tried to explain.

“There’s been a change of plans.”

The prince had been healed by imperial technology— to a point. As Noctis grew, the magitek implants that allowed him to walk would need to be upgraded or replaced. There were technicians for that, but Noctis would need more than just mechanics.

Gladio added anatomy, osteopathy, and physical therapy to his curriculum. He wasn’t a nurse, but he’d need to know this shit. Every upgrade would require months of therapy and that would be Gladio’s responsibility. He would still be the prince’s bodyguard, but operating under the title of personal trainer.

Noctis is younger than Gladio, but older than Gladio’s little sister, Iris. The prince seems at once too old and too young for an eight year old. Maybe staring death in the face before you’ve finished third grade leaves its mark on you. Noctis is quiet, but Gladio doesn’t have to work too hard to get him to smile. His job for now is just to play with him, to keep him calm and distracted while the grownups poke and prod and do things that hurt. Gladio is barely more than a kid himself at this point, but Noctis doesn’t get a break just because he’s a child, or because he’s royalty. If anything, his life is a lot more difficult and complicated because of his status. Niflheim adds yet another degree of needless difficulty.

Noctis is still a kid, an actual child, and maybe it’s asking a lot of him not to cry when his implants are being serviced. King Regis sits with him, hand in Noctis’ the entire time. Gladio is there on the sidelines for “training purposes”. He’s not fully certified yet, not by a long shot, but he needs to see with his own eyes what he’s got to look forward to. Noctis doesn’t scream, doesn’t bawl, but it’s obvious it hurts. He tries to be brave, but he’s just a kid for Astral’s sake.

Gladio comes around and takes Noctis’ other hand.

“You got this,” Gladio tells him. Noctis seems confused behind his tears.

“That snake didn’t get you. You’re tough. You’re strong. You can do this.”

“But...but I’m not strong or tough…” Noctis hiccups.

“Well you may not be able bench more than ten pounds,” Gladio agrees, “but that’s not the kind of strong I meant.

“You’re determined, strong-willed, and maybe a little bit stubborn. You’ve had way worse. You can do this. I know it.”

Despite a sharp intake of breath and a pronounced wince, Noctis smiles.

—

Gladio doesn’t babysit Noctis 24-7, that’s Ignis’ job. Ignis is a rarity in that he’ll keep his original job description as Royal Valet. It’s Ignis who helps Noctis dress, bathe, and use the toilet. Ignis puts him to bed and gets him up in the morning. He’s also in charge of the prince’s schedule, meals, and daily routine.

Gladio doesn’t perform such intimate tasks. Instead he tries to get Noctis’ brain, body, and hardware to cooperate. It’s a lot harder than it looks. Noctis’ spine was damaged at the waist by a Naga. The nerves weren’t completely severed, but what feeling and control that’s left is unreliable at best. The Nif techs managed to reroute his nerves to a series of electrical filaments that in turn attach to mechanical implants that move his legs. It works for the most part. However, Noctis doesn’t have a lot of feeling below the equator. Things like bathroom breaks are better dealt with using a timer, and Science may have to step in if Noctis is ever going to continue the royal bloodline. Gladio mostly tries not to think about that last one.

It’s his job to push and pull Noctis’ legs, to keep the muscles from atrophying worse than they already have. Noctis tries, he does, but it’s like trying to drive a car without power steering, and Noctis is too young to drive- metaphorically and otherwise. He does his best, but it’s not easy.

“It’s hard!” Noctis protests at Gladio tries to get Noctis to bend, then fully straighten one leg on his own.

“Yeah, it is,” Gladio agrees, which is apparently not what Noctis was expecting. “Anything worth doing is hard. Everything worth having, worth knowing, takes work, and work sucks. You think I like doing a million push-ups or getting up before dawn to run?”

“I...kinda did,” Noctis admits.

Gladio laughs. “Hell no I don’t, but I gotta be big and strong enough to coach you. I gotta work hard to work you hard. So no slacking off on me, okay?”

Noctis nods, features set in determination. “Okay.”

The Nif doctors seem amused at his efforts. They like to scold him, like to threaten to report him for overtaxing the prince. Report him to who? Clarus? Regis? Ideolas? The first two would just tell him to keep up the good work and reward him in some small way if they can. Gladio seriously doubts Ideolas has any fucks to give about Lucis in general, or Prince Noctis in particular. As far as Niflheim is concerned, Noctis is even more useless than Regis. They can’t kill the royal family outright- not yet, not now, it’d look bad- but there’s no political advantage to making a crippled kid a public figure. Can’t have the Lucian masses getting attached to him. No good can come of that; not for the Empire, anyway.

Gladio makes it his personal mission to piss them off. This means more training for Noct, more training for him, but not where the Empire can see. On the clock, he does no more than he’s allowed. That doesn’t mean he can’t follow Noct and Ignis around and work in extra stuff here and there. It makes for a long day for everybody, but Noctis seems to understand. He’s a kid, but he’s under no illusions: they’re all prisoners. His father did this to keep him alive, and he owes it to Regis and the rest of Lucis to try. It’s a lot to ask of a fourth-grader, but he can do it. Gladio knows it.

\--

As far as Gladio can tell, no one worth worrying about thinks Noctis is much of a threat. Ideolas has mentioned once or twice about vague plans to groom Noctis to take over. It was all Gladio could do to keep from making the loudest snort-laugh in the history of ever. Yeah right. Everyone knows Ideolas has some weird-ass theory about eternal youth and living forever. The absolute last thing he’s gonna do is train some kid who can’t even stand up on his own to run things after he’s gone. At least, that’s what everyone hopes. What they don’t need is Ideolas taking it into his head to _actually_ try to groom Noctis- for the throne, or something more sinister. For the present, the Empire seem content to leave Noctis alone and let him be a kid. It’s something, but it’s unlikely to last forever.

Noctis needs to learn how to defend himself. However, there are two big problems with that. One, there is no possible way the Empire will allow Noctis near anything bigger or sharper than a butter knife. Two, it is supremely unlikely Noctis will ever be physically strong enough to wield anything bigger or sharper than a butter knife. So that leaves only one other option.

Because of the Crystal, the royal family is able to use magic to a much greater capacity than common citizens. The Empire has already removed it Gralea, but they can’t use it without the Ring of the Lucii, and where that’s got to, only Regis knows. Regis knows, and like hell he’s going to tell them. Gladio is reasonably sure he’s interrogated- if not tortured outright- at least once a week regarding the ring. Regis always seems extra worn-out on Fridays, and not just because it’s the end of the week. Point is, Noctis can use magic even without the missing ring. It’s the only thing he can work on that the Empire can’t take from him, so that’s what they do.

Iggy, Noct, and Gladio stay up late reading thick, dusty books smuggled from the palace library. If Noctis falls asleep during his daytime lessons, or meetings that his father drags him along to, it’s cute. It’s reassuring to the Empire that Noct’s too physically weak to be a threat. Gladio hopes they all live long enough to wipe the smug smiles off the Nifs’ faces.

—

King Regis doesn’t have a lot of time for his son. It’s not like he’s doing a lot of ruling what with Niflheim calling the shots. They’re using him as a figurehead. Regis seems grimly determined to wave and smile and pose for photographs so long as Noctis is left alone. Perhaps that’s why the king has surrounded his son with peers as well as adult protectors. Noctis needs people who care about him close by. That might be why the Empire eventually decides it needs a place at the kiddie table.

Gladio isn’t sure about the kid Noctis and the king bring back with them from Noctis’ most recent treatment. Despite being a cyborg, he seems okay. Maybe. Prompto doesn’t exactly fit the description of “killer robot”. For one, he’s Noct’s age but looks younger. He’s sorta chubby, with golden hair and violet eyes; almost like a life sized doll, except not creepy. Prompto is the opposite of creepy. If anything, he’s way too sweet and goofy. It’s hard to hold back, and eventually Gladio gives in and lets himself develop a soft spot for the little guy.

Prompto has even more implants than Noct. He helps do basic maintenance on Noctis’ hardware; small stuff that isn’t worth a trip to the hospital. He teaches Gladio about neuro connectors and nanotechnology. Gladio teaches him about muscle spasms and phantom pain. Ignis simply wants to know where Prompto’s loyalties lie.

“With Noctis,” Prompto shrugs as if this were perfectly obvious. “I am programmed to serve the prince.”

It’s one thing they can all agree on.

Gladio is afraid Prompto might be a snitch of some kind; recording everything they do even if no one’s directly pumping him for information. Prompto insists his eyes aren’t built for video surveillance, and that his memories aren’t being backed up anywhere. He’s a “self-contained unit”, which apparently means that no one is co-piloting him or downloading the contents of his brain every six months. Prompto insists Niflheim only knows how to put information into a brain, not take it out, not without damaging the information or the brain, anyway. Neither Gladio nor Ignis find this particularly comforting.

“They wouldn’t do that to you, would they?” Gladio asks, half afraid of the answer.

Prompto’s expression is wary, guarded. Gladio wonders if they’ve accidentally triggered some sort of safety protocol in him.

“I don’t _think_ so,” Prompto says after a moment’s consideration, but with no real conviction. “As long as I perform my function, I remain valuable.”

That isn’t reassuring at all. Gladio and Ignis exchange a look over Prompto’s head. No words pass between them, but they agree all the same: nothing will happen to Prompto if they can help it.

—

Because he’s growing, and growing fast despite his physical impairments, Noctis merits a full upgrade annually, usually just before his birthday. He develops an instinctual response to the treatments that Gladio wishes he knew how to train out or shut off. About two weeks before treatment, Noctis starts having nightmares. He gets screaming muscle cramps out of nowhere that take hours to massage and medicate away. Any progress he may have made goes out the window, and for at least a week he regresses almost to square one. He stumbles all over himself, can barely do even simple exercises, and can’t get up without help. Ignis has to change his sheets more than once.

Noctis isn’t allowed to eat anything twenty-four hours in advance of the surgery, which is just as well. He spends most of the lead up dry-heaving out of sheer dread. Because his nerves have to be tested, he’ll be awake for the whole thing. He’ll be sedated during the procedure, but not nearly enough. His body and brain remember the previous instances and violently rebel at the thought of more. He doesn’t complain, not verbally, but his body does all the talking for him. Noctis knows he’s got to do this, but Six Above, he doesn’t want to.

It’s bad enough when he’s small. It’s the only time Gladio’s seen Noctis launch into a full-out, knock-down, drag-out, shopping mall meltdown. It took them an hour to peel him off of Regis, still screaming and crying, begging for his father not to let it happen. Regis had to finally put on his King Face and set Noctis down on the operating table himself. Gladio feels for them both. Gods know what he’d do if it were his kid. No, scratch that, he’s never having kids. Not after this. He knows full well he could never do it himself. Watching is hard enough.

As Noctis gets older, he learns that screaming and begging won’t help, but he can’t seem to shut off the tears. It’s involuntary, a reflex, and while he forces a trembly little smile for his father, his cheeks are wet. Regis hugs him and tells him to be brave, that it will all be over soon. Noctis doesn’t say anything, just holds on until the nurses pull him away.

Puberty had hit Gladio like a truck somewhere around thirteen. It hits Noctis like a freight train around the same age. Ignis, the smug bastard, has been forty years old his entire fucking life and Gladio hates him ever so slightly for it. The only thing to happen to him were a couple of pimples and he suddenly got a whole lot taller. Prompto, being Prompto, looks like ten until he’s about sixteen. Then he disappears for about a month and comes back looking like he’s already twenty. Gladio’s afraid he’s been replaced by a clone or something, but Prompto v2.0 proves to be just a taller, skinnier version of himself.

“I did undergo maintenance,” Prompto confesses. “No one dumped my brain or anything. I still don’t have any monitoring devices. I just… They put me in a tank for a while. When I came out, I was taller.”

“Huh,” Gladio muses. If he could have skipped all the awkward stuff, he totally would have. Still, he’s not sure there’s any good way to fill that space between twelve and eighteen. You’re gonna have to deal with some kind of physical or emotional bullshit no matter what. Compressing it all into thirty days probably isn’t as fun as it sounds. He still wishes they could do that for Noctis.

The Prince isn’t so lucky. There’s a stretch between thirteen and fifteen where the techs seriously consider just letting him live in a wheelchair until he stops growing. He’s getting too tall too quickly for them to keep up. Also, Noct’s a nervous wreck before two almost back-to-back treatments, and a complete and total wreck afterward. It feels like he doesn’t have any time to recover before it’s time for another tune-up.

“It doesn’t make sense to keep doing deep-tissue maintenance,” Prompto says out of nowhere. Everyone looks at him. He’s not supposed to speak out of turn, but there must be some sort of protocol that demands he say something if he feels Noctis is in danger. “Why not use a temporary external prosthesis?”

The doctors look at each other, caught somewhere between “that might actually work” and “why didn’t we think of that?” The aforementioned “temporary external prosthesis” looks like a tricked out pair of leg braces. They’re bulky, they’re delicate, and don’t allow for all but the broadest of gross motor control, but it’s better than being retrofitted every six months. Despite barely being able to feel anything below the waist, Noctis is the most relaxed he’s been in a while. Without so much energy being diverted to power his legs, his magical studies make an impressive leap forward.

Regis is only average height, and Noctis maxes out somewhere around 5’9”, just an inch shy of his old man. He may yet make it up. Gladio knows men can keep growing into their thirties, but it doesn’t seem likely that Noctis will get significantly taller. He’s eighteen, and the worst of the physical malarkey has passed. The techs are itching to put in permanent hardware. Noct doesn’t say anything to that, but he grips the arms of the wheelchair tighter and there’s too much white showing around the edges of his eyes. Gladio can almost feel his heart rate spike. Instinctively, he edges closer to his Prince, just to let him know he’s there. Ignis and Prompto cluster tighter as well. Regis looks uncertainly to his son.

“If it makes you feel any better, your Magestes,” the tech, who isn’t a _bad_ guy, just a little too wrapped up in his life’s work, tells them, “this should be the last one.”

Noctis just looks at him. The last one? Surely not. They can only hope that the cycle of pain is over. More likely, it will just have longer intervals in between. Noct seems to be thinking along these lines because he eventually gives a resigned nod. It’s got to be done if he ever wants to walk more than ten steps by himself. He might as well go into it with a brave face.

This one is bad. Regis is sent- deliberately, Gladio is sure- on a PR trip about a week before. He won’t be back in time for the surgery. There is no one to hold Noctis’ hand this time. They can fight and argue and wheedle and cajole all they like, but Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto are only allowed to watch from the other side of the observation window. Gladio has to stumble out of the room to puke at least once. Prompto has to run to the trash can twice. He starts crying at some point, but Prompto barely seems aware of the tears. Ignis is white-faced and silent. Gladio wonders if something inside has broken.

When the surgery is over, and they all turn to follow the gurney to the recovery room, Gladio has to lunge to keep Ignis from hitting the floor. His narrow body isn’t shaking so much as vibrating in distress. Gladio hides a hug in the motion of catching him and holding him steady. For a few horrible seconds he’s legitimately worried Ignis might faint. However, the older man gathers himself and gets his feet under him. They can all sit down now while Noct sleeps off the anesthesia. At this point, they all need a chance to recover.

Noctis starts crying after a few hours. Nobody’s too upset by this, since it’s a pretty typical response to metabolizing anesthesia. When Noctis doesn’t let up, Gladio steps up to look him over even as Ignis hits the call button for a nurse.

Because the surgery was on his back, Noct’s lying on his stomach. Prompto carefully folds the sheets back and examines the technician’s work.

“Looks okay to me. Could just be muscle spasms?”

“Noct? Noct, buddy?” Gladio asks, taking the hand not stiff with IV tubing. He places his other hand between Noct’s shoulder blades. That usually calms him. “What’s the matter? Where’s it hurt?”

“Gladio…” Noct mumbles, lifting his head slightly. He manages to open his eyes but can’t focus on anything. This could be because his eyes have gone a solid, uniform black.

“ _Six!_ ” Gladio hisses, panic spiking up his spine.

Prompto comes over to look. “Oh. No, that’s normal.”

“That is _not_ normal!” Gladio insists. “The hell did they do to him?”

“It’s a side-effect of the energy source,” Prompto explains, tapping one of his own implants. Part of it is mythril, the rest is a crystal-faced inset filled with dark purple liquid. Prompto’s never been able to explain what it is without losing him thirty seconds in. The implants fused to Noct’s lower back, rear end, and legs look the same: mythril supports and reservoirs of purple goop.

“Gladi…” Noct slurs, purple dribbling from his mouth. “I… I’m gonna…”

Gladio grabs a basin for him just in time for Noct to vomit purple. Despite not being a sympathy puker, Gladio feels his own stomach lurch.

“Please tell me you did this too?”

“I did,” Prompto says calmly. “It’s a bit of a shock to the system at first. He’ll acclimate to it in a couple of days.”

Noct’s head hits the mattress- he wasn’t given a pillow, it’s a suffocation hazard- with a muffled thud. He’s unconscious again, purple oozing from the corner of his mouth. It’s probably just as well. Hopefully he’ll feel better when he wakes up.

\--

Noctis is shaking with pain or anesthesia withdrawal or both when he wakes up for real. Regis is still on campaign, so Ignis holds him while Gladio and Prompto do what they can to ease his discomfort. Gladio’s terrified of disturbing the new implants. Noctis’ flesh is still red and swollen around the mythril bits. Flesh and metal weren’t meant to go together like this, and though it’s clean and seamless, it still makes Gladio’s stomach clench unpleasantly.

Noctis is oozing purple wherever his body can find an outlet. He coughs until he gags and then brings up more goo. When he starts to cry this time, his tears run black. Both Ignis and Gladio are alarmed at this point. Prompto can only shrug.

“I did that too,” he says quietly. “He’ll…he’ll be okay. I was.”

Suddenly Gladio pictures Prompto alone in a lab in Gralea. In his mind, it’s uniformly made of cold steel and bare tile; black shadows, stark white light, and painfully sterile. Prompto had mentioned spending time in a tank while he went through five years of puberty inside thirty days. There was no one there to hold his hand, to stroke his hair or offer encouraging words. Prompto has no family that they’re aware of. Hell, he could have been conceived in a petri dish and incubated in a lab for all they know. Gladio is overcome with the urge to hug him. Prompto doesn’t resist. Instead, he holds on, silently trembling. When he pulls back, his lashes are wet, but his cheeks are dry.

“Sorry,” Gladio says, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly awkward.

Prompto shakes his head, eyes downcast. “No, it’s okay.”

An awkward pause stretches between them, lightened only by Ignis muttering soothing nonsense to Noct in the background. Right. Noct. They should probably focus on him. That would be the best thing to do.

\--

Noctis is stoned out of his mind on pain killers for another week. It takes him slightly longer to stop barfing or crying purple goo.

“Maybe he’s allergic?” Prompto hazards. However, it’s hard to tell what’s a reaction to the goo, and what’s trauma from the surgery.

“I don’t understand,” Ignis remarks. “He didn’t have this problem before.”

“The reservoirs were never implanted before,” Prompto points out, “just the nodes that connect his nerves. Nobody wanted to do anything permanent to a kid for this exact reason. It probably would have killed him.”

Gladio wonders, then, why Niflheim didn’t just go ahead and get rid of the crown prince when they had the chance? Except Lucis’ surrender had hinged on Noctis’ health. They couldn’t very well kill a child they’d just put back together, not without being even more blatantly obvious about their evil plans.

“They’re not…trying to kill him now, are they?”

Prompto and Ignis go very quiet. Noctis is building log cabins in Cauthis, so he doesn’t overhear. At least his eyes have gone back to normal, so he could be getting used to it, but he might not.

“I got better?” Prompto says. It’s all he’s got. It’s all any of them have. All they can do is wait and see.

\--

By the time Regis returns- about two weeks after the surgery- Noct’s through the worst of it. He’s no longer leaking purple from all the wrong places, and he’s making good progress therapy-wise. The brain-to-leg connection is still futzy, but more reliable than it’s ever been. This isn’t saying much, but when Gladio asks him to bend-and-stretch, or to try to balance, Noct can do it. Maybe not on the first or even the second try, but he can do it. Looks like Prompto was right. Noctis just needed time.

Nobody can decide what the Empire think of this. Noctis is now as healthy and repaired as he’s ever going to be. In long trousers, you can hardly tell that he’s been augmented out the wazoo. There’s a slight hitch to his gait, not really a limp per se, that hints at what’s been done. Unless you knew what to look for, the average person would probably never notice. Weirdly enough, it’s about then the Empire decide to parade him around a bit. They don’t take him out of the city, indeed they can’t really take him out of the Citadel much. Noctis is still recovering and runs out of steam quickly. However, he still has to smile and wave and agree that without magitek he wouldn’t be alive today. It’s true, but Gladio thinks the Nifs patting themselves on the back with both hands is a bit much.

By the time Regis gets home from yet another trip, Noctis is trying hard not to be the poster boy for magitek augmentation. It’s not going very well. There’s also something else that’s got everyone who’s not a Nif worried. Because of the surgery, Noctis hasn’t even thought about trying to use magic for anything. He’s got impressive reserves for someone his age, but it’s still a physical drain. When he does try to light a candle without a match, just for fun, he can’t do it. It’s not cause for immediate alarm, but it does make Ignis frown in a way that suggests the cosmos has personally offended him. He slashes Noctis’ schedule, ruthlessly carving out time for the Prince to rest. His phone jangles almost constantly with calls and texts from angry heads of state, dignitaries, and other people with more clout than courtesy.

It takes another two weeks for Noct’s MP to refill. He has to fight a little for the fine control he used to have, but he manages in the end. Prompto can’t comment on this since he’s never used magic in his life. Like most ordinary people, he can’t. Because of Noctis, he can call weapons from within the armiger, but that’s about it.

“Do you think it’s because of the...goo?” Ignis asks. He hates calling it that, but no one can come up with a better word. Prompto’s tried to tell them the technical term, but it’s a Nif word that requires three tongues and an epic head cold to pronounce correctly.

“I guess it’s _possible?_ ” Prompto hedges. “It’s a sort of magic in and of itself. It could very well be messing with Noct’s magic reserves, but it should even out.”

It’s worth noting, and Ignis does so. Gladio can’t see what he’s tapping into his phone, but he’d be willing to bet it’s more downtime for Noctis.

The Empire suddenly wants him for all sorts of things, and Noctis just can’t keep up. After he falls asleep standing up in the middle of a photo shoot, only his implants keeping him vertical, do they dial it back a bit.

“The hell are they even doing this for?” Noct mumbles from the back seat as Ignis drives them home. His eyes are closed, but he’s still awake. “Why do they care now?”

“You’ve come of age,” Ignis says. Noct opens his eyes and Prompto and Gladio turn to look at him.

“You’ve come of age,” Ignis repeats. “You’re a legal adult now. Under other circumstances, if your father were to abdicate, you could ascend the throne.”

Everyone subconsciously appreciates that Ignis has the tact not to use the phrase: “if something were to happen.”

“They want it to look like I’m on their side,” Noct says, realization dawning. “They want everyone to think they’ve got me under control. ‘Look at your pretty broken prince. We fixed him, and now we own him.’”

“Just because Regis surrendered doesn’t mean you have do,” Gladio points out.

“ _Gladio!_ ” Ignis hisses in rebuke.

“Hey it’s not treason, I’m not threatening the king!” Gladio protests.

Noct snorts. “What? The four of us are gonna wage a mini revolt? Sure. Why not. The Empire’d love an excuse to off me.”

“Noct, _please_ don’t say stuff like that,” Prompto begs.

“Sorry, Prom,” Noct says, too tired to sound repentant. Ignis, however, has an unusually contemplative look on his face.

“What do you know that we don’t?” Gladio asks.

Ignis allows himself a smirk. “Plenty, I should imagine.”

Glaido rolls his eyes. Prompto snickers.

“Seriously.”

“The next thing on the agenda is a meeting with King Regis. That is all I can say on the matter.”

Noctis has dropped off again, so Gladio holds his tongue. It’s only fifteen minutes back to the Citadel. Whatever it is, the explanation can wait until they get there.

\--

Gladio’s surprised, and maybe a little concerned that he, Ignis, and Prompto are asked to stay. Regis doesn’t make them stand. He’s got a bum leg himself, and he won’t make his son observe the formalities unless it’s absolutely necessary. In this case, despite having a private audience with the king, they all sit down.

“Noctis, gentlemen,” King Regis begins. “I have something very important to discuss with you. Noctis, I received a letter from Queen Sylva of Tenebrae. Do you remember her at all?”

“A little,” Noct replies.

“Do you remember her children, Lunafreya and Ravus?”

 

“Yeah. Why?”

“Luna was anointed Oracle a few years ago.”

Noctis nods. “Yeah, it was all over the news.”

“She’ll be queen of Tenebrae after her mother. As such, she will need a king.”

Gladio suddenly realizes where this is going. Noct seems to have figured it out too, because he sits up a little straighter.

“Queen Sylva wrote to me, suggesting a match between you and Lunafreya. She wants to know if you’re agreeable. If you’re not, that’s fine. However, I urge you to think carefully. Marrying Luna will bring our two nations together. In Tenebrae, you could rule as you see fit. You would be free to aid Luna in her calling.”

_You would be free._

The words hang between them. Leaning forward, Noctis takes the letter from his father and scans the delicate handwriting. It’s so elaborate it takes him a minute to parse it. He can see what Queen Sylva and his father are saying; aren’t saying. This is a bid to get him away from the Empire. A way to restore his own freedom as well as help keep Luna safe. After all, the Oracle and the Chosen King are supposed to work together on this whole bringing Light back to the world thing.

Noctis looks up, searching his father’s expression. He hasn’t got his King Face on this time. Right now, he’s just a father trying to do what’s best for his son.

“Does the Empire know about this?” Noctis asks.

“Of course. They read all my correspondence.”

“And...they’re okay with it?”

“They’re under the impression that you marrying Luna will give them control of Tenebrae; the last independent nation left. I fear they may be somewhat misinformed on the matter.”

“So...I’d really be marrying Luna, or not?”

“I believe the request is sincere, if layered,” Regis says carefully. “She was very fond of you when you were young.”

Noctis nods. He and Luna have sent letters and a scrap book back and forth for years now. He likes her fine as a friend. It could totally be worse. Luna’s pretty cool, and so is her brother, though Noct’s memories of him are more vague. Still, the choice is his. The marriage can be a cover story, or it can be real. It’s up to him.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll do it.”

Regis visibly relaxes as he releases a held breath. “Good.”

“So...you got a plan?”

His father smiles. “I do.”


End file.
